In The Darkest Hour
by D.B.R Hazlewoode
Summary: AU Johnlock/MorMor. Missing the danger of the battlefield, Dr. John Watson offers his services on a Doctors Without Borders mission only to encounter a slightly unstable leader, a shy psychiatrist, and a standoffish roommate that he's strangely drawn to.
1. Arrival

_**A/N/Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moffat, Gatiss and Conan Doyle. MSF (Doctors Without Borders) is an actual organization that provides medical, mental, and nutritional help to countries that need it. I've moved some things around to suit the story. (Molly, for example, is an American and a tad more outgoing than usual). Updates are going to be irregular as I complete the story, so hang in there. (This is my Johnlock Bigbang story, and I have until June to finish.)**_

_**Beta: Allie Clark**_

* * *

><p><em>"Turn the lights on!" John demanded, gripping Sherlock's thin wrist on an angry impulse. Moriarty flashed the lovers a sly grin and sidled over to his immaculate desk.<em>

_ "I could," he began thoughtfully, "But I don't think I will. It would spoil everything, and you do know how I love surprises."_

_ "What is it that you want? Because if we're simply going to stare at each other, I'd quite like to get some sleep," Sherlock told him, obviously bored._

_ "Time, Sherlock, time," Jim warned playfully, "We do know what happens when we rush things. Don't we, Doctor Watson?" John lunged at the Irishman, but Sherlock promptly pulled him back with an alien agility._

_ "John," he murmured soothingly, "This isn't worthy of your time."_

_ "Let's keep a handle on our pets, shall we?" Jim said lowly, taking a seat, "Seb's just been itching for target practice, and I'd hate to see someone get hurt."_

* * *

><p>The first thing that hit him was the heat. It came over him as if he'd just stepped into an oven, as trite and timeworn the expression. John found that he couldn't take a breath without the air quite literally sticking to his lungs. He'd dressed as lightly as he'd dared, but obviously he hadn't done enough.<p>

"Hot enough for you?" a voice called out from behind him. John turned, offering his arm to the red headed psychiatrist he'd met on the plane ride over.

"You've no idea," he muttered, gently prodding a stray goat out of the way. She brushed herself off and gazed up at the noontime sky.

"D'you believe there's goats on the runway?" she laughed, bending down to smooth her hand over its head. It bleated in response and started slowly away.

"Molly, by the way," she reminded him, sticking her hands in her back pockets. John gave her a small smile and stuck out his hand.

"John Watson."

"Will somebody clear these things out of my way?" someone shouted, pushing their way through. Irish, by the sound of it.

"Quiet! _Now._" The way the Irishman spoke commanded attention. The remainder of the new volunteers stopped their conversations mid-sentence. The owner of the voice was... short, to say the least. But he made up for it in control. John could see it, even now. The way he'd silenced everyone with just two words was impressive.

"Parlez-vous Français?" he asked the group.

"Oui," John replied automatically, voice taken up and carried by the response of the others. He was suddenly grateful for primary school. The Irishman frowned.

"Not enough. Most of you will have to deal with translators, and they speak it. Learn it." Molly nudged him.

"I don't speak French," she whispered frantically.

"None at all?"

"Not enough," she admitted.

"Shut _up_!" They snapped back to attention.

"I haven't got the time for this here. Get your luggage and get into," he shuddered, "One of those... cars. _If_ I can call them that," he added in a horrified undertone. John and Molly grinned at each other. Their 'cars' were a small fleet of hot-pink Suzuki Jimnys.

"Go!" He clapped, and they dispersed. John insisted on taking Molly's suitcase and almost instantly regretted it. His bad leg buckled without warning, and he would have gone down had Molly not reached out to steady him.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he puffed, hefting the suitcase and throwing it into the back seat along with his own. The impact shook the car, and the man in the front seat turned around.

"Greg Lestrade," he said by way of introduction. John shook his hand and climbed in beside Molly, relieved to meet another Englishman. He'd thought that he was the only one.

"John Watson." Lestrade's radio crackled to life.

"Tango one for tango two, tango one for tango two." Greg pressed the call button and raised it to his mouth, motioning for his passengers to close the doors.

"Tango two to tango one, moving out. Over."

"Copy that, tango two. Carry on." The driver started the car, and they started toward their camp.

"You know that security document we had to fill out? With the questions?" Molly queried suddenly. They nodded, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"We don't...I mean...we won't ever need that, will we?" She was greeted by silence.

"The world's a dangerous place. Chad's no different."

* * *

><p>Jim sunk into the chair at the head of the meeting table and closed his eyes, stretching. He was quickly growing tired of the 'Jim next door' routine. If he didn't come across a worthy adversary soon, he'd have to resort to making trouble. And that was merely a distraction, not enough to really satisfy his constant need for conflict. Sherlock was engaging, but his heart wasn't in it, and there was no fun for Jim in that.<p>

The door to the rudimentary office space opened, and the new volunteers poured in. Getting a second glance at them now, not one of them struck his fancy as a proper adversary... or otherwise. His gaze lingered on the redhead and her companion, a doctor by the looks of it. There was something about the two of them... He'd look into it. Sighing internally, Jim shoved up and grabbed a box from the middle of the table, gathering the will to play nice.

"Right, now listen, because you all need to get going. You need these," he held up a handheld radio, "at all times. They are to be on you every moment of every day. Security is at a medium level right now. There's a list of codes taped onto the back, and there's lists in your houses. Memorize them as quickly as possible and don't let these out of your sight. Sign your name and radio number on this paper." Jim passed the box around, and waited until everyone had taken one and signed up before he spoke again.

"You've already been given the security briefing, so I hardly have to remind you to do as you've learned. Any questions about security, see Greg Lestrade." One of the volunteers raised their hands.

"What?"

"What's your name?" Jim allowed himself a short, self deprecatory laugh, raising a hand to his head in the universal, 'oh my, I must have forgotten' sign. _Likeable_, he reminded himself, _accessible_. And then he'd have his fun.

"Right. Jim Moriarty. I'm the general logistician. Speaking of, introduce yourselves. En Français." He pointed to the doctor.

"You first. Name, marital status, children, where you're from, what you're here for. I honestly couldn't care less," he broke in over the sudden chatter, "but it's MSF tradition."

"Bonjour. Mon nom est John Watson. Je ne suis pas marié, je n'ai pas d'enfants, et je suisd'Angleterre. Je suis ici en tant que médecin," he said flawlessly, _**Hello. My name is John Watson. I'm not married, I don't have any children, and I'm from England. I'm here as a medical doctor. **_Jim silently noted the way he moved, recognizing his previous occupation without waiting for him to say it.

"Vous étiez dans l'armée." _**You were in the army. **_John nodded and looked down uncomfortably.

"Oui." The redhead spoke next in terribly broken French, but Jim kept a nonchalant watch on John. Something about the army doctor stood out to him now. He was simple, too simple, really, to be any fun to him. But he would make an excellent bargaining chip, Jim could see that already. He smiled softly and gazed up at the ceiling. Perhaps the trip hadn't been a waste of his time after all. _Perhaps._

* * *

><p>John struggled to keep up with the group he'd been split into after the quick meeting. They were headed to the compound to stash their luggage and then go their respective ways for training. John noticed the way that Molly gripped her hand radio.<p>

"Are you okay?" he questioned, looking down at her. She jumped, smiling in embarrassment.

"Fine. Why?" He gestured to her hand radio.

"You seem to be slowly choking the life out of the thing." She loosened her grip and cast a sidelong glance at him.

"I didn't know you were in the military." He ducked his head.

"I don't talk about it." Names were being shouted as soon as the pair made their way into the first house.

"...Brett, Hartford, Lopez, and Cook! Building 2A! Hooper, Tennyson, Hughes,

Coleridge, Watson, and Emerson! Building 1B!"

"Excellent luck," he said to Molly, following her back out and into their new home for the next eleven months. She threw a small smile over her shoulder as she accepted a packet from the MSF volunteer standing at the door.

"Name?"

"Molly Hooper."

"Hooper...room ten, first floor. You already have a roommate, so keep that in mind," she warned before turning to John. Molly gave him a final wave and wandered off to find her room.

"Name?"

"John Watson."

"Watson. Room twenty-two, second floor..wait," she frowned. John stopped.

"Problem?" She tugged on her short ponytail and craned her neck.

"Lestrade!" she boomed, waving him over with her packets. As Greg made his way over, John shifted his feet nervously. Already he was having problems. He'd come to Chad to get rid of them, hadn't he?

"Problem?"

"I've got Watson in room twenty-two. Do we have somewhere else where we can put him?" Lestrade pursed his lips.

"I suppose we should have planned around him. I'm not sure we'll have access to another room until a month or two from now.." he trailed thoughtfully, flipping through the woman's chart.

"What's the matter with twenty-two?" John inquired, "Surely it isn't anything I can't handle." _I've already been to war_, he said to himself, _anything is better than that._ The woman looked at him with pity.

"Sherlock Holmes," she told him, rolling her eyes. John almost laughed.

"Sher- a person?" he asked incredulously, "I think I can deal with a person." The two stared at him as if he had no idea what he was getting himself into. In a way, he felt as if he didn't.

"Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes... he's more than a person," Lestrade warned, "He's more like an enigma."

"Wrapped in a riddle," the volunteer added.

"Surrounded by a mystery," Greg finished, frowning at the papers, "John, I'm afraid you'll have to room with Sherlock. I'm going to try to have you moved-"

"I'm sure I'll be just fine. I don't want to make a fuss," he said, embarrassed. He was holding up the line. Greg handed the volunteer back her papers and put a hand on his shoulder.

"He's hardly ever in there, but be on your guard. He's... he's quite something."

* * *

><p>Included in John's packet was his schedule, and he checked it absentmindedly as he slowly took the stairs to his room, bags cradled to one side. Struggling to comprehend the time difference, he assumed that he'd be due at surgery soon. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but decided at the last moment to try the knob. It didn't open, and he really wasn't surprised. This Sherlock character was already proving to be the mystery they'd alluded to.<p>

"He's not in there," a Spanish woman informed him on her way by, "He's hardly ever in there." John sighed and dropped his suitcase, unclipping his new ID. Feeling all of sixteen years old, he slid the ID into the door and bent it back towards the doorknob. Tossing a hasty glance over his shoulder, he slid the ID around and caught the knob as the door swung open. He hadn't jimmied a lock since he'd attended uni. Pushing his thoughts aside, John picked up his luggage and pushed his way into the sparsely decorated room. Upon first inspection, it seemed as if no one lived there. Each bed was immaculately made, and there was little (if any) evidence of a human presence. If Sherlock lived there, he wasn't able to tell. Thinking that they'd made something out of nothing, John put his suitcase on the bed and sat down beside it, beaten by the time change. He'd just become comfortable when -

"Dr. Watson, it's Dr. Crane. Jimny leaves in five. Over." the radio alerted him, giving him a start. He took a breath and shoved off the bed.

"Right, I'm coming," he muttered back, bracing himself, "Over."

* * *

><p><em>September 15, 2012<em>

_ I suppose I'll have proper use for Dr. Thompson's journal now, won't I? She's sworn it's for the best, but then, I'm not very decent at therapy and all that anyway. I'd much rather deal with the physical, the tangible. And that's what I'll be doing here...if I can manage it. We've been toured today, and we're to be trained tomorrow and the following. And then I really start - without any help. I cannot afford to muck up. I've seen these people, and they need doctors. It's nearly impossible, really, the idea that we allow people to live like this, without water, without the proper food, without proper protection and shelter. I'd thought I'd been humbled when I'd gone to war, but the few hours I've spent here have clearly told me otherwise. I'm not so much afraid for my safety as I am of that of Molly and the others. I've faced this before, and she hasn't. Sweet girl, she is. I haven't had the chance to see her since moving in. And while I'm on the subject of moving in... This Sherlock, (if he even exists) seems to be nowhere to be found. I'd rather thought I'd wander into him throughout the day, but it seems I was wrong. It's getting on eleven now, and I've yet to see him. But one thing at a time, I suppose. We're to wake at five tomorrow. _


	2. Beginning

_**A/N/Disclaimer: As usual, characters belong to Moffat, Gatiss and Conan Doyle. **_

_**Beta: Allie Clark**_

* * *

><p>It was excellent luck that John and Molly wandered into each other at breakfast. They had both been so occupied in the past four days that they hadn't seen much of each other since they'd landed in Am Timan. They were officially finished with their training, meaning that they were now on their own.<p>

"Morning!" John greeted her, still somewhat pleased with the fact that their kitchen had been stocked with English tea. She raised tired eyes to him and offered a half hearted salute, stirring her mug of coffee.

"Tired?" he inquired, sitting next to her. She looked down into her drink.

"Not a morning person," she mumbled, taking a delicate sip of coffee. Dr. Crane breezed in at her usual breakneck pace, grabbing herself a mug of coffee. The American doctor had been a wonderful teacher to John in the past days. This was her fourth trip with MSF, although it was her first to Africa.

"Hello John," she said brightly, passing over a large round plate, "This is bouillie. Ever have some?" John and Molly cocked their heads to the side and looked at the round, pale balls of what looked like dough.

"I don't believe I have," he responded carefully. Surprisingly, he had been given food that he was somewhat used to, only trying one or two of the traditional foods from Chad in the four days that he had been here. Dr. Crane plucked one from the plate and motioned for Molly to do the same.

"It tastes sort of like oatmeal. It's made from peanuts and millet, and it's boiled in water. Try some." Gingerly, he did.

"It's not bad," he admitted. The other doctor smiled and pulled her silver-black hair into a tight ponytail at the back of her head.

"Told you. I have to get going, see you at TFC!" Molly put down her coffee and scrunched up her nose in confusion.

"TFC?"

"Therapeutic Feeding Centre."

"You work with malnutrition," she said quietly, "Is it terrible?" John looked away.

"Somewhat." Truth be told, it was horrid. He hated that the majority of children that he'd seen were under the age of four, and they were already slowly starving to death. But malnutrition was so much more than starving: it was not having the vitamins and the immune system to fight off disease. It was much more complex and heartbreaking than anything he could have ever imagined. Molly's hand radio spoke suddenly, leading her to take off for the morning. John hung around for a moment longer before he cleaned up and headed off to surgery.

* * *

><p>Sherlock, having timed his entrance perfectly, poured himself a mug of black tea just as the remainder of volunteers were clearing out. Turning to go, he found the project manager in his path.<p>

"Lestrade," he said, only mildly annoyed thus far. Sherlock could tolerate people in small doses. Very small, very silent doses.

"I suppose we'll have to speak about John Watson," Greg said, picking up an empty mug. Sherlock allowed a flicker of interest. He had gotten a glimpse or two of the man the night before.

"The army doctor." Lestrade seemed surprised.

"How did you-"

"Honestly, Lestrade, you act as if I've never done it before. Were you expecting his entire life story, or is that sufficient?" As Sherlock turned to go, Greg put down the mug and blocked his way. He sighed.

"Sherlock, we've got to talk about this."

"We haven't got to talk about anything. The doctor is staying in my room, and that is that." Greg looked up in wonder. Sherlock could see him reiterating his words over and over in his head. He couldn't imagine how boring it must have been, being so simple.

"You'll have him, then?" Sherlock put down his tea and whipped around in the opposite direction, away from Lestrade.

"I don't have much of a choice, now, do I?" he tossed over his shoulder, almost like a second thought, "He seems useful, at any rate."

* * *

><p>John's translator, Radeyah, greeted him as he entered the TFC.<p>

"Êtes-vous prêt?" she asked pleasantly, leading the way. _**Are you ready?**_

"Oui," he mumbled, reaching for his charts and fumbling for a working pen. As it was the dry season, the malnutrition and starvation were worse than what he'd been told was usual. It was still early, however; they had yet to reach the spike that came at the midpoint of the season. Dr. Crane patted his shoulder as she hustled by. Struggling to recall for a moment, John went outside the main floor and received his first patient: a two year old boy and his mother. She carried her son in one hand, and a basket of wash in the other.

"Je vais chercher votre fils installés, et puis je peux vous montrer l'endroit où placer le lavage, d'accord?" he said to the woman, waiting for Radeyah to translate it to Arabic. _**I'll get your son settled first, and then I'll show you where to put your wash, okay?**_ The woman nodded and started rattling off sentences in Arabic, leaving John feeling hopeless. So far, he had only met two patients that spoke French; it seemed that the only ones who knew any of the language were either somewhat well to do, or had been allowed to continue their education. Radeyah, he knew, had come from a family that had enough money to allow her to go to college and become a translator for MSF. They had only met a few days prior, but already, he owed her everything. His Arabic was nonexistent, though he had managed to pick up a few words here or there. John took the child from his mother and placed him on the examination table, pulling out the MUAC band from a box on a nearby table.

"Je suis juste mesure, il ne sera pas lui faire de mal," he said quietly, _**I'm just measuring, it won't hurt him.**_ He liked to let the parents know what he was doing every step of the way, just so that they wouldn't have to worry. Using the band, he took a quick measure of the boy's upper arm. John unwound the band and picked up the boy again.

"Quel est son nom?" he asked, _**what is his name?**_ Radeyah relayed the information to his mother as he put the boy into an empty bed.

"Zuhayr," she announced. John asked for a spelling as he filled out the chart. The woman stood nervously beside Radeyah, whispering in her ear.

"Elle veut savoir si il va bien se passer," she said, _**she would like to know if he's going to be okay. **_With his back turned to the both of them, John began connecting Zuhayr to the surgery's rudimentary monitoring system.

"Il doit rester pendant vingt quatre heures," he told the mother, _**He'll need to stay for twenty four hours. **_Before Radeyah had even finished translating, the woman shook her head.

"Elle ne peut pas rester vingt-quatre heures." John sighed. He'd been warned that some mothers were unable to stay for the twenty-four hour period that their children needed to remain in the TFC. He knew that there was a special program for situations such as these, but he had obviously never administered it before, and he didn't want to do anything incorrectly and harm the child. Scribbling a note down on his clipboard, John went over and collected the vitamins and antibiotics that he would administer. That was the most that he could do until Dr. Crane reappeared. He explained what he was doing and gave Zuhayr the injections, becoming mildly worried when the child barely reacted to the sting of the needle.

"Ce sont des vitamines et des antibiotiques. Si vous ne pouvez pas rester toute la journée, pouvez-vous rester jusqu'à environ quatre et revenez demain?" John called over his shoulder, putting a band-aid over the injection site and smiling at the little boy, _**Those are vitamins and antibiotics. If you can't stay all day, can you stay until about four and come back tomorrow?**_ The mother looked torn, but finally she nodded, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

"Everything going okay?" Dr. Crane asked, startling him. She had a way of doing that, just appearing out of nowhere.

"They aren't able to stay for the entire twenty four hours, so he'll need to be put on the day programme. How much milk do I administer?" She peered at the numbers he'd scrawled on the chart and went to the case, returning with the proper dosage of milk. Dr. Crane crouched beside Zuhayr and quickly checked his temperature, heart rate, and eyes as she murmured soothing Arabic in his ear. Standing, she handed John the milk and pointed out the feeding chart taped to the case.

"Careful. Too much too soon and he'll get sick." Exchanging a smile with Zuhayr's mother, she strode off to assist another new arrival. John, slightly unnerved at the doctor's ease and agility, prepared the milk cautiously and gave it to Zuhayr as Radeyah translated his instructions. Satisfied, he turned to his mother and guided her to the wash area.

"There's others," Dr. Crane warned on her way past, "Hurry up." John sighed and started on his way back to the main floor.

* * *

><p>Molly closed her eyes and ran her hands through her strawberry hair. She had known that it wouldn't be easy, and she hadn't expected it to be. That was what she had come here for, wasn't it? The challenge? She opened her eyes and stretched, seized by the sudden desire to leave the cramped room that she had been working in all morning. On her journey around the building, she wandered into Adnan, her translator. They exchanged a few words in awkward French, and then they went their separate ways. Molly chewed her ponytail and poured herself another cup of coffee. She'd been here for over four days now, and it seemed as if everyone was speaking fluent French. Well, everyone except for her. It made it harder to communicate with Adnan, and it made her look horribly unprofessional.<p>

She hated having to page through the ever present English/French dictionary at her side, or having to wait while her hand held translator switched languages. It was terrible, really, the way she needed a translator to speak with her translator. She wanted to speak the language, really, she did...But she never seemed to have the time to sit John down and ask him. Though they were housed in the same building, their schedules seemed to conflict all of the time, and the only time they saw each other was for a few moments in the morning. Cupping her drink in both hands, Molly started back to her new office, mentally attempting to gear herself up for what would come next. Already the stories were beginning to take their toll on her; she'd heard more tales of torture, murder, abuse, and rape than she had ever seen or heard on television in America. And this was real, there was no making any of this up. By the time she got back, Adnan had already called in her next patient. Molly forced a smile and grabbed her translator.

* * *

><p>Sherlock threw down his ink pen and studied the expense report he'd just completed. Bored, he tucked it haphazardly into a pile on his desk and shoved up, looking around for something to occupy him, something challenging. On occasion, he had lent his expertise to the scientists in their lab simply for the fun of it; he knew more about what they were up to than they ever would, and he wasn't the least bit shy about letting that on. He considered a visit, but decided against it at the last moment, thinking the task too menial for his skill. Grabbing his key from beneath a stack of paper, he locked the door to the office behind him and began the short walk to Building 1B, disregarding the security protocol. He'd done it so often that Lestrade had given up trying to force him to stick to the rules. They both knew that his walking about on his own was a major security breach, but the bother of enforcing it was greater. They had an understanding akin to that, Sherlock and Greg. He was quite helpful if he found Lestrade's problems to be interesting enough to keep him occupied.<p>

Sherlock was notorious for sticking his nose where it didn't belong, as he often did on days such as these. He rolled his eyes mentally as he recited that passwords that allowed him access into the building, knowing all the while that an imbecile could figure out the codes if they truly had the desire. He used another key and unlocked the door to his room._ 'Their room, rather'_, he reminded himself, seeing Dr. Watson's things strewn about the bed and in the small chest of drawers by the side wall. Since John had moved into his room, Sherlock had arranged it so that they hadn't met. Not until he firmly grasped a good idea of who the man was would he decide whether or not he was worthy of his time. He paced, hands behind his back, not touching but observing. Medical doctor from the military, which he had already deduced. He'd had a slight limp when he walked; very likely psychosomatic more than anything. He'd been injured and returned too early. Most likely, he suffered from post traumatic stress disorder, and his therapist had encouraged - no, enforced - journaling. The doctor reluctantly did so, nightly. Sherlock could have gone on, but he chose against it and sat himself on the corner of his sparsely used bed. He supposed the doctor would make for an interesting diversion. That aside, Moriarty was becoming restless. It would do to have companion this time.

* * *

><p>John and Dr. Ira Palmer climbed into a vacant Jimny and checked in with their hand radios. As the car lurched forward, the pair lapsed into companionable silence. They'd found, through a near accident at the TFC, that they were set up on identical schedules. In speaking, they had also discovered that they'd both served in the military. Separate infantry units, but the same war. Separate countries as well; Ira was from New Jersey. Thanking the driver, they exited the car and headed inside, murmuring the pass codes and gaining entrance into their building. John craned his neck, somewhat disappointed when he didn't find Molly. He did, however, catch a glimpse of the logistician. Moriarty, wasn't it? John avoided his eyes and followed Ira into the kitchen. He opened and closed several cabinets before happening upon tea. John shook the box, disappointed when he found it empty.<p>

"It's mostly Americans here," Dr. Palmer called from the refrigerator, "Most of them finished before you showed up," he added. He took the "them" to be the other English volunteers stationed here. John started the coffee maker instead. He didn't appreciate the taste, but the much needed burst of caffeine was gratifying.

"How do the meals work around here?" he asked Ira, leaning against the counter. They had sixty minutes for lunch, and twenty of them were already gone. Ira passed him a covered platter and two paper plates. Grabbing a plastic fork, the American uncovered the plate.

"In this building, we have a couple kitchen aids," he began, poking at the cold fish, "They cook and clean-"

"Hired help?" John broke in, putting his full plate into the microwave.

"I guess. They're locals, and MSF pays them pretty good. It's not everyday, though. We have a lot of local stuff stocked in the fridge, and we get some shipments in, but those are months apart. Sometimes one of us cooks for the group. There's a schedule on the wall somewhere in here," Dr. Palmer finished, pointed in the general direction of the door. Whilst he waited for the food to finish, John glanced at the list.

"There's too many schedules," he muttered, "Too much to remember." The American laughed.

"Tell me about it," he said, handing the platter off to one of the lab technicians. John nodded his hello and carried his plate over to the table, returning to fix himself a mug of coffee. He didn't notice the logistician until he nearly walked into him.

Jim feigned surprise and gave the doctor a moment to recover.

"How've you and Sherlock been getting on?" he inquired innocently, picking up a mug. John paused for a moment before he strode over to a table.

"We haven't met," he said, sitting down.

"Well, lucky you," Moriarty drawled, reclining against the counter.

"Who are you talking about?" the American asked, mouth full. Swallowing his disgust, Jim fleetingly attempted to recall his name. Doctor something or other..it didn't matter, really. He sat himself down at their table, noting that Dr. Watson had already developed some sort of aversion to him. At least he wasn't stupid. Dull at times, perhaps, but not stupid.

"Sherlock Holmes," Jim responded.

"I don't understand," John started, putting down his fork, "What all of the fuss is about." He stopped. "What does he do, anyway?" The American laughed.

"You have to room with Holmes? Good luck!"

"He works in finance," Moriarty told him, working his voice to a tone of false awe, "He's some sort of genius with numbers and the like."

"He'd better be good at something, with that attitude of his," the American said lowly.

"He can't be _that_ terrible," Dr. Watson broke in.

"Haven't you ever heard - no, I suppose you haven't," Jim trailed provocatively, making moves as if to leave. He counted in his head. _Three, two o-_

"Well, hold on, what haven't I heard?"

"How he ended up here."

"International incident or something, right?" the American interrupted. He was ignored.

"It isn't my place to tell," Moriarty murmured.

"Well go on, you'll have to tell me now. I'm the one who's got to room with him." It was below him, really. Spreading rumors. But it wasn't a rumor if it was true, now was it? Jim took a deep breath.

"I suppose we're not to speak of it, so don't tell anyone else. _Comprendre_?" he lowered his voice, "He worked as an economic specialist or something like that for the financial institutions. You know, the big ones. About six or seven months ago, the company he was working with met with the president of some country or the other, it's not important. It would have been one of the biggest investment deals the country had ever seen." He paused, savoring the way he had managed to get both doctors hanging onto every word that he spoke. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

"Then what?' John questioned, pushing his plate away.

"Well then Sherlock Holmes strolled right into the meeting, walked up to the president, and announced, in everyone's earshot, mind you, that the president was a murderer." John snorted.

"I don't believe it." Moriarty shrugged.

"I'm simply telling you what I know. He was rushed out of the meeting, an investigation began, and his brother Mycroft sent him here to lay low until it blows over." Dr. Watson picked up his fork again and returned to his food.

"It's ridiculous. But you're a great story-teller, I'll give you that much." Jim got up as his hand radio went off.

"Be careful," he warned, turning to go, "The man's a terror." Brilliant, Sherlock was, but a terror to those unaccustomed. And if he didn't speak with the doctor soon, Jim would just have to take it upon himself to make sure that they did. His mind was brimming with new ideas, but none of them would be any fun without the devil and his doctor. Without Sherlock, Moriarty was unstoppable, and really, how boring was that?

* * *

><p><em>September 19th, 2012<em>

_ Sherlock is still nowhere to be found. He's such a mystery that it all has to be a joke. Honestly, how can one man be so shrouded in shadows on a volunteer trip? They make him out to be some sort of devil. I would judge for myself, but that's hard to do, given his constant absence. The logistician, (Jim, I think), told me a wonderful tale today about how Sherlock came to be here. Something fantastic about a president and a banking firm and a murder? I don't believe it for one second. I'll have to speak to him for myself. Or Greg Lestrade, he seems to know. The Sherlock business aside, I was rather hoping that I would come into a wayward box of tea today, but it seems the building doesn't stock it very often. Unfortunate, really. I suppose I'll have to manage with coffee. Well, I'm rambling, now aren't I? This isn't quite what Dr. Thompson had in mind. I'd better get off to sleep now, call time tomorrow is five A.M._


	3. Inkling

**_A/N: Characters aren't mine._**

**_Beta: Allie Clark_**

* * *

><p>Greg Lestrade was a little more than frustrated as he mounted the stairs to the science lab. The supplies reports had been due the day before, and he'd gotten word that they hadn't been received. He rapped on the door and took a step back, waiting for Sherlock to come to the door. He didn't.<p>

"Sherlock, I don't have time for this. Open the door." There was silence. Greg ground his teeth in poorly contained anger. He could be so impossible, Sherlock. Digging into his pocket, Lestrade withdrew the key and unlocked the door, pushing it open without stepping inside.

"Sherlock. I need your reports." This wasn't even his job, checking up on him to make sure he got done what he needed to do. It was ridiculous, the fact that Greg had to look after Sherlock as he would a child. But he had promised Mycroft, and promises of that sort weren't easily broken. Sherlock appeared moments later, goggles balanced precariously in the tangle of his midnight hair.

"What is it? I'm working on-"

"Your reports." No recognition flashed in his eyes, and Lestrade tried again.

"The expense reports? You were supposed to have given them to Amy yesterday." Sherlock stepped outside and closed the door to the lab, removing his gloves and goggles.

"I did finish them." He stopped. "Moriarty." Greg suppressed a sigh. The two of them regularly went at it as if there was nothing better to do in the world. Getting them to work together was a task that no one, much less Gregory Lestrade, was properly trained to do.

"Don't give me some ruddy nonsense about how he's stolen them or something equally outlandish, I won't have it." They exited the building and climbed into the idling Jimny, Sherlock enormously miffed by the senseless distraction. He would prove to Lestrade that he wasn't in possession of the paperwork, and then he would kick him out. The issue of having Greg breathing down his neck was generally resolved by a good door slam, but with the way Lestrade had been behaving, Sherlock suspected that, subsequently, there would be no door for him to slam after that. It was a minor price to pay for privacy. And civility, something that his brother had been attempting to cram down his throat from the time that they were children.

"Don't be foolish, Lestrade, of course he hasn't stolen them. I gave them to him a week ago to sign. It isn't my fault that they haven't come back yet." It was like dealing with children. When the car arrived at the financial building, Amy was already waiting outside. Young and mousy, she had served as MSF's secretary for nearly ten months. She averted her eyes as Sherlock unlocked the door and strode in, immediately inspecting the desk.

"I need your reports, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly, standing by the door. Sherlock ignored her and sat down.

"He broke in," he said simply.

"And why would he have done that?" Greg asked, already exasperated.

"Because he's bored. He likes making trouble and watching everyone scramble about like they've lost their senses. I don't have the-"

"They're right there," Amy said, pointing to a wayward folder sticking out of the trash bin. Lestrade went to retrieve the papers. He spoke as he flipped through.

"These are the reports. You haven't signed them, Sherlock. He has, though." Sherlock snatched the folder away and paged through it, laughing bitterly. Snatching a pen from the desk, he quickly initialed every page and held the packet out to Amy without looking at her. She glanced at him, _hard,_ and then turned to leave.

"This isn't a game, Mr. Holmes," she told him, an uncharacteristic edge finding its way into her voice, "These people depend on us." With that, she was gone. Lestrade took a seat in front of the desk. Sherlock spun himself round on the desk chair as he looked up at the ceiling.

"You told me that you signed the papers," Greg said, watching him. Sherlock didn't stop, nor did he respond.

"She's right. This isn't a game," Lestrade added.

"Don't be childish," Sherlock snorted.

"What do you think I'm dealing with?" Silence, save for the squeak of the chair as it continued to go round. Then:

"Believe what you want. I signed those papers. Moriarty's playing some game or the other, and really, I've no interest. It's boring," he muttered, stopping at last, "Absolutely, utterly boring."

* * *

><p>John returned from lunch with Radeyah at his side. He'd wanted to visit a few of his regular patients before he started with the new ones. He nodded his hello to a few volunteers that he had come to know over the past couple of days. There was Darya, a veteran nurse from Russia, and Sofia, a first-time doctor from Spain. He'd come to know others as well, but he didn't see them as much as he would have liked due to his schedule. Thinking of his schedule got him to thinking about Molly, and how he hadn't seen very much of her recently. It had a lot to do with the fact that the TFC and the Mental Health Facility being housed in separate buildings, he knew. It still would have been nice to talk; she was really such a lovely girl.<p>

He picked Zuhayr out of the crowd and waved, finding himself smiling. He had improved quickly and had been placed on the homecare programme. John was glad to see that he was doing so well.

"Comment vous sentez-vous?" he asked through Radeyah, _**How are you feeling?**_

"Bon. Comment êtes-vous?" Radeyah translated, _**Good, and you?**_ John grinned and sat down beside him.

"Donc, poli. Je suis bien, je vous remercie. Tout ce mal?" he asked, _**So polite. I'm well, thank you. Does anything hurt?**_ The answer was no, and he gave Zuhayr a quick check-up.

"Votre fils est l'amélioration. Ramenez-la semaine prochaine," Dr. Watson told Zuhayr's mother, **Your son is improving. Bring him back next week.** He stayed a moment longer before going to pull another patient. Noting the number of people standing in line, he moved quickly. The peak of the dry season was quickly approaching, as he'd been told, and the malnutrition cases were getting worse. John managed a respectful 'hello, how are you' in Arabic, but he relied on Radeyah for the rest. He was learning. It was taking a long time, but he was learning. John was pleased to see that Karif, the new toddler that he was working with, was doing better than most of the children he'd seen since he'd been in Chad. His measurements and check-up went well, and John placed him into the Supplementary Feeding Centre immediately.

"C'est une bonne chose," he explained to the boy's mother, _**This is good.**_ He relayed how the program worked in as few words as possible. Every two weeks, Karif would need to come back for another check up and a ration of unimix. The mix was to be used in porridge for the entire family, and it would boost vitamin levels. He gave Karif a shot, and then gave his mother her unimix. She thanked him warmly, and he offered a smile in return, ready to move on. He was beginning to enjoy his work.

* * *

><p>"...from Jim, and he said that he'd given them to Sherlock-" Hearing his name, Moriarty took a few steps backward and hung around the corner, out of sight. He'd become so uninterested with life that he'd taken up causing minor trouble. Just confusion, nothing special. Nothing important; not yet, anyway. No, he would wait for the proper time for all that he had planned. He gave a casual look at the small gathering. The secretary that had come to see him that morning, Amy, was speaking with two nurses and that stupid American who had taken lunch with Dr. Watson all those days ago. Pleased, he concealed himself again to listen.<p>

"Would you believe that Sherlock tossed them into the trash? He tried to blame Jim. It's just horrible. If he isn't responsible, then he shouldn't be here," Amy said, hushed. The nurses murmured their assent. Jim smiled and strolled away. Sure, it was only minor trouble now. But wasn't that how it started? All that it takes is one. One rumor, one comment, one person. And then it begins.

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms, attempting in vain to rid herself of the images. The scars, the bruises, the <em>pain<em> that these women had gone through. And it wasn't simply women; there were men as well. Not as many, perhaps, but enough. They had gone through the same things that the women had endured, maybe more. She couldn't begin to make herself understand what life had to be like for these people. Coming to the Mental Health Facility was a risk for everyone who made it to see her, and she knew it. If their husbands, brothers, fathers found out... It would have been a disgrace upon the family, and as she had seen, the people took the law very literally into their own hands. Her patients were undeniably brave, and she was constantly in awe of them for that. It was herself that she was upset with. She could barely make it through more than four sessions before she had to excuse herself. She usually journeyed to her closet, the place where she was resting now. Somehow it was worse, hearing their stories in another person's voice. If they had the courage to speak, she should have had the ability to listen.

Molly'd thought that she had been ready when she had applied. After all, she'd been working as a psychiatrist for more than four years, and she'd seen everything. Or so she had thought. But then she had come to Chad, and she had seen and heard the unimaginable. It chilled her beyond warmth, and somehow, she was grateful. She was still human. It was the day when she stopped feeling that it would all begin to come apart. She shoved up from the ground and paced in small, tight circles. She'd come across the closet in one of her post-session travels, and it had become her safe haven. It was dim, tiny, and hidden away. It suited her, really. She was there now, knowing that Adnan would come for her soon. Molly wished that he wouldn't; she really wasn't up to it. No amount of coffee seemed to replace the sleep that she had lost trying to sort through the muddled confusion that had become her mind. Sure enough, she recognized his voice as he called her name. She took a deep breath, held it, and then opened the door. She wasn't ready, but she wouldn't let them see.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had stopped into his room to grab something when he heard the door close behind him.<p>

"Moriarty," he said, straightening. He'd heard it in his footsteps. There was a pause before the Irishman spoke.

"Hello, Sherlock." He turned around and glanced, indifferent, at the shorter man.

"You certainty had your fun this morning, didn't you?" Sherlock said quietly, "Bored, are we?" Jim flopped down on John's bed and closed his eyes.

"You won't believe how frightfully _dull _these people are! Tell me, how am I to have my fun when there's simply no challenge?" he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, "No challenge at all." Sherlock had always thought Jim to be something of a reptile, with his cold, hard eyes. He was supposed that Jim's heart was as cold as his eyes, but really, so was his own. Or so he had been told. What he had yet to deduce was the true reason Moriarty had come to Africa. He loved power; Sherlock had picked up on that from the moment that they had met. He loved controlling people, loved the ability to force people to do as he wished without them realizing it. He had been something of a terror in London, albeit an invisible one. All of these things he could tell by studying his face and the way that he carried himself.

"I'm afraid I can't help you," Sherlock announced, pocketing what he had come for. Jim sat up, knocking John's journal from the bed. He paid it no mind and looked gleefully up at the taller man instead.

"But you will."

"Your idle threats mean nothing, Moriarty." And they didn't; never had. They'd had their battles in the past, and they had almost always ended in an indignant stalemate. It was impossible for one to win if both are constantly a step ahead of the other. And that was how they had been since their first meeting. Always striving to be one step ahead. The reason nothing notable had ever occurred, he thought, was because the stakes were too low. This wasn't Sherlock's country; these weren't his people, and he had no friends here. No friends beside Lestrade, but he was safe enough thanks to Mycroft. The stray idea that Jim might use Dr. Watson as a bargaining chip came to his mind, and he hung onto the thought for a moment before he released it. It was simpler to not have friends.

Moriarty shrugged and stood, casually flipping through John's journal. Sherlock knew Jim's game well. He'd tire of waiting, start some scare, rumor, or the other, and sit back and watch the confusion. Then he would tire of that as well, and he'd come to Sherlock with cryptic hints and riddles that led him on a scavenger hunt to absolutely nowhere. And then it would begin again. Occasionally, they had deviated from this pattern, and Sherlock had been forced to save a life or two. Life meant nothing to Jim. Nothing at all. But this time was different. This time, there was some sort of real threat, though he didn't yet know what it was. Moriarty didn't have the slightest clue yet, either, but they both knew that it was coming.

"You and John are my last hope for fun, Sherlock," Moriarty told him, tossing the journal across the room with a casual flick of the wrist, "Be a good sport and play along when the time comes. I can't stand to be among such _ordinary_ people."

* * *

><p>By some odd stroke of luck, John had managed to catch up with Molly and Dr. Crane for dinner. He'd gotten a glimpse of Ira as well, though he seemed to have lost track of him at the moment. Using her position to their collective advantage, Dr. Crane had gotten them use of a private room for dinner. Molly slid into her seat beside John and smiled tightly, keeping her head down. Ira wandered in, looking confused as usual. Dr. Crane bowed her head and murmured a prayer in Arabic, and then everyone began to eat. John waited for the plate to be passed his way, and smiled at Molly.<p>

"How've you been getting on?" She looked up and hesitated, as if she wasn't quite sure what he wanted to her to say. Finally, she sighed in defeat and offered a tired smile.

"It's...hard," she admitted quietly, her usual fight gone out of her. John could only imagine what she was going through, being a psychiatrist. Though he didn't work directly with the abuse victims, he'd seen and heard enough. Again, his heart ached for the people forced the live in such terrible conditions. No one deserved this.

"I heard that Sherlock tossed Jim's reports in the trash today and tried to blame him for losing them," a nurse commented. John made a face. Was Sherlock Holmes their conversation starter, then?

"I heard that too! From Amy, right?"

"John, how's Sherlock?" Ira cut in, obviously impatient, as the food hadn't quite reached him yet. John shrugged.

"I still haven't met him." Dr. Crane put her fork down and frowned.

"You haven't met your roommate yet? How?"

"It's Sherlock Holmes," a nurse whispered, grimacing.

"You'd be better off not meeting him," another said.

"He'll do that weird-ass deduction thing on you, and you'll never be able to show your face again. You heard the story," Ira added, giving Dr. Watson a knowing glance. Dr. Crane rolled her eyes.

"Don't listen to whatever they tell you. They make him out to be a villain, but he's not. He's just... misunderstood," she assured John, grinning. He took this into consideration. How he had yet to meet his roommate was beyond him. As he accepted the plate, he promised himself that he'd hunt down this Sherlock Holmes, tonight, and see what all of the fuss was about.

* * *

><p>By the time dinner was finished and the plates washed, John was exactly five degrees past absolutely exhausted. He gave a general goodnight and climbed the stairs to his room, quest forgotten. He yawned and stretched, allowing his eyes to fall closed for just a moment. And in that moment, as was his luck, he collided with someone else. His eyes flew open as he reached to steady her.<p>

"Right, sorry," he muttered, flustered. She re-adjusted her ponytail and gave him a friendly look.

"It's alright. It does help to walk around with your eyes open, though." He smiled, pleased to see that she was English. And quite pretty, he musn't forget that.

"John Watson," he said, offering his hand. She took it and grinned.

"Sarah Sawyer. " Suddenly, she seemed familiar to him. He tried to place her name and face with the MSF staff he saw every day.

"You're a doctor, aren't you?" he burst out suddenly. She nodded, slipping her hands into her side pockets.

"At the clinic, most of the time. Sometimes I volunteer at the TFC when you're under-staffed." John sighed in exasperation.

"Which is every day now," he muttered. Sarah chewed her lip for a moment.

"I guess that means we'll be seeing a good amount of each other, yeah?" she beamed, turning to go. John looked after her, bemused.

"Yeah," he said quietly. But she was already gone.

* * *

><p><em>September 30, 2012<em>

_ I just may fall asleep as I'm writing this. I'm tired beyond belief, which seems absolutely incredible to me. Today hasn't even been the most challenging. More pressing than usual, yeah, but nothing that I can't handle. Or so I hope, anyway. The climax of the dry season is coming up, and Dr. Crane has warned us all about how bad it will be. She's already told us that she expects two out of every twenty-five children that come into the centre to die. _Each day. _Luckily, no one has died under my watch, and I expect to keep it that way. It's terrifying, work here. It isn't the first time I've played doctor, but it feels as if it's the first time that I've played God. The stakes are higher here, higher than they had ever been at war. Because at war, I dealt with grown men. Broken, wounded men, but grown men nonetheless. They were able to defend themselves when the need arose. But when I deal with the children here... they're utterly defenseless, and I've come to realize just how much they depend on MSF to save them. They cannot save themselves._

_ Sherlock's still been absent, and I've arrived at the point where I don't really care anymore. I told myself that I was going to find him tonight, but I'd forgotten when I ran into Sarah in the hall. She's something, Sarah. She says she'll see me again. I'll make sure of it._


End file.
